Bound (The Devil's Due Book 3)

by Eva Charles

  “I saw that,” he responds, before turning to me. “Did you know Mary Magdalene was a redhead? At least that’s how she was depicted in drawings.”

  “I was trying to persuade Kate to help modernize our newsletter,” Virginia pipes up. There’s something a bit off about her affect, or maybe she just has poor conversational skills. “We need to get with the times, Father, or we’ll be the ones left to close the doors.”

  “The bulletin, Virginia.”

  “The bulletin,” she repeats softly, lowering her eyes, again. “I better go supervise Petey’s lunch.” She hurries away in the direction of her son without another word.

  “How old is Petey?” I ask.

  “Sixteen. Almost the same age Virginia was when she gave birth to him. It hasn’t been easy, but she’s a wonderful mother, and takes great care of him. He’s gotten to be a handful now that he’s hit puberty. If you’re going to be coming over to help us with the bulletin, you should be aware that he is—that he’s unpredictable. Keep your wits about you when he’s around.” He looks directly at me. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” His attention goes back to Petey. “Virginia insists he’s harmless, but you have the right to know.”

  It sounds a bit dire, or maybe I seem fragile. “I have older brothers. I’m used to a bit of rough and tumble. I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thank you for letting me know.”

  “I noticed that you’re too polite to tell me that you haven’t actually agreed to help with the bulletin.”

  I don’t really need another job to cut into my research time, although a church bulletin shouldn’t be that difficult to overhaul. “I have a lot going on, but I would be happy to help, if you don’t need it done in a hurry.”

  “I’m not sure that I need it done at all, but Virginia keeps nagging, and I’m willing to indulge her on this. Perhaps you can take a look at our back issues and give me your opinion. You’re young and smart, just the kind of person we’re seeking to entice.”

  “I’m not sure how smart I am, but I’m always happy to offer an opinion.”

  “Great. Maybe one evening after work you can come by for supper. Mondays are the best night because I have all these leftovers to eat. Trust me, you don’t want to eat food I prepare.” He quirks his brow. “Are you free tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow? “I have a meeting at the library tomorrow, but next Monday will work.”

  “Good. We can confirm at Mass next week.” He pauses. “That was presumptuous of me. There’s no expectation that you attend Mass here. You might prefer another church. I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t apologize. I planned on attending next Sunday. I enjoyed the Mass today. It felt right.” He stares at me, much the same way that he did in the library when I worried he was having a seizure. “Father?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I have a lot on my mind. We should help ourselves to lunch while the food is still warm.”

  12

  Kate

  It’s Friday evening and I’m relaxing on Miss Macy’s porch with my laptop open, plotting the weekend’s research while treating myself to a plate of shrimp and grits and a chilled rosé. Miss Macy’s is known for smooth creamy grits, inexpensive wine, and free Wi-Fi. It’s my kind of place.

  Today is my twenty-eighth birthday. Bittersweet as always.

  My family never celebrates with me because it reminds them too much of my mother. Except for my brother, Liam. Growing up, he was the only one who wished me a happy birthday, and bought me a present from money he had saved from shoveling snow. When he was older, he would take me out for a banana split at Brigham’s, or sneak me an éclair from an elegant bakery downtown. While he was alive, even when he was stationed in the desert, he always remembered my birthday. I don’t know if it seemed disloyal to my mom, or to the others, but he wanted it to remain our secret. I never betrayed him, not even to Fiona.

  It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. We celebrated my birthday every year in class during elementary school. Chocolate cupcakes with buttercream from Rita’s Bakery would somehow materialize each year. Back then, I pretended it was my dad who would sneak the goodies in, but I’m an adult now, and I know better. I’ve nagged Rita for years to tell me who placed the orders, but her lips are sealed. I still don’t know.

  When we were teenagers, Fiona always made a huge deal of my birthday. We celebrated with friends and vodka pilfered from our parents’ stashes. She never forgets me, and today was no different.

  The day started with Fiona and the boys FaceTiming me to sing a loud, off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Their love and joy radiated off the screen as they promised there were more surprises in store. They were bursting with secrets, and Fiona had to finally shoo them away before they blabbed about the surprises.

  She had an eight-layer chocolate cake delivered to the library, along with a huge basket of lilacs, and when I arrived home, there was a package waiting for me. I teared up as I carefully undid Fiona’s exquisite wrapping, and lifted the gorgeous shirt from the box—a sexy off-the-shoulder style with a lace-up front and delicate hand embroidery, from a boutique on Newbury Street, near where she works. Fiona has always been better at dressing me than I am at dressing myself.

  I wore my new shirt to my birthday dinner. Who cares if I’m eating alone and no one besides the waitstaff at Miss Macy’s will see it? I see it, and it makes me feel pretty and loved. That’s what’s important.

  Alone, or with friends, I’ve learned to commemorate my birthday in some way each year. To celebrate my life, because it’s worth celebrating. My guidance counselor told me that the year I graduated from high school.

  Aside from church, I have no weekend plans, just two full days to devote to research, and trying to put together the pieces I’ve already gathered. I still don’t know why the King hearings were postponed, but I do have more information about him, although no smoking gun.

  Lucinda, who volunteers at the library, is chatty, and she doesn’t care that I’m not from Charleston. Apparently when she was younger, she was a striking redhead too, and has decided we were meant to be good friends.

  She makes it her business to fill in the gaps—to teach me things I don’t understand about the city or its people. Lucinda swears King was a dog back in the day, scouring Charleston after dark for a little tail. Those are her words, not mine.

  While she acknowledges they exist and that there are secrets, she doesn’t make much of the exclusive societies. She also doesn’t have much use for the Wilders, except for Gabrielle, JD’s wife. Says she’s the only one who doesn’t have her nose so high in the air that she can’t say hello. Although Lucinda did confess if she were younger, she’d like to wrap her legs around Gray and let him take her for a ride—on his motorcycle, you naughty girl, she added when I began giggling.

  I sense someone approaching the table, and look up with a smile, assuming it’s the waitress with the cornbread I ordered. My smile fades when Sinclair pulls out an empty chair and sits down across the small table from me, our knees almost grazing.

  I’m speechless. I open and close my mouth a few times to say something, but the synapses don’t begin to fire on all cylinders until he speaks. “Nice night to have supper outside. Perfect weather and no bugs. We don’t get enough evenings like this.”

  “This has to stop. You’re always creeping around in the shadows. I can’t even get a meal in peace. What are you doing here?”

  “You’re never going to get anyone to tell you a damn thing if you don’t develop some manners. Good manners. It’s like you were raised by Yankees, or some other gnarly creatures.”

  His tone is chiding, but his eyes have the glimmer of fun. Too bad I’m not in the mood for Sinclair’s kind of fun tonight.

  “Hello, Mr. Sinclair. It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it? What are you doing here?”

  He shakes his head. “I came for the shrimp and grits, same as you.” Sinclair hesitates, looks around, then leans across the table and whispers conspiratorially. “Please tell me
you ordered the shrimp and grits.”

  “It’s none of your business. And I don’t believe you’re here for the food.”

  “Believe it.”

  “Smithie,” a woman cries, as she steps onto the porch with a starched apron tied around her generous hips. Her chestnut hair, dotted with silver, is coiled into a neat bun. She’s beaming as she approaches the table. Sinclair gets up, takes the glass out of her hand, and gives her a bear hug, squeezing until her heels are off the ground. “I’m off at ten,” she tells him. “If you get rid of this pretty little thing sittin’ here, I’ll see what I can do about ditchin’ my husband.”

  Sinclair’s immediate response is a loud boisterous laugh that echoes from every corner of the porch. “You, darlin’, are more woman than even I can handle.”

  “You always know how to make an old lady feel good,” she says, before pointing at the tumbler Sinclair took from her hand. “Jasper’s workin’ up some new concoction now that the weather’s warming up, said to bring some out for you to try.”

  Sinclair sits back down, and takes a sip, and then another before he offers an opinion. “Tell him he’s got a winner here.”

  “Praise the Lord! He’s been tinkering with that damn drink all week. I’m sick of hearing about it.” The woman reties her apron. “The usual?” she asks Sinclair.

  “Yes, ma’am.” His attention shifts momentarily to me. “Have you ordered?”

  I nod. “Right before you sat down.”

  “Would you mind holding back Miss Kate’s order some, so we can have our supper together?”

  Really? Presumptuous bastard. I would kick him under the table, but he’s too close for me to get up the momentum to make it hurt. “And can we get some of that jalapeno cornbread you bake up, please?” he asks. “I dream about that buttery crumb all the time.”

  “You watch yourself, Miss,” she warns. “This man is a shameless flirt. No tellin’ where his charm might lead you.”

  I stop myself from saying something snarky about him. Instead, I give her a warm smile. “He keeps me on my toes, that’s for sure.” Being pleasant isn’t normally so difficult for me—unless Sinclair is around.

  “Is that Missy Macy?” I ask when the woman walks back inside.

  He shakes his head. “That’s Miss Jolene, Jasper’s wife. They own the place. He cooks and she bakes. They make everything from scratch. Miss Macy was Jasper’s old hound.”

  How does the man know the details of everyone’s life? And why do people adore him? Even Lucinda said she’d let him keep his slippers under her bed.

  “Taste this,” he says handing me the old-fashioned glass. I shake my head. “Come on. Jasper will appreciate a woman’s point of view.”

  “A woman’s point of view?”

  “Yeah. You're a woman. We established that the first time we met, right?” God, he’s insufferable. “Whiskey’s a man’s drink.”

  “A man’s drink?” I glare at him across the table.

  “Stop acting like I’m some kind of Neanderthal. Men drink all sorts of liquor, as do women. But my experience is men tend to drink whiskey more often, and although I know plenty of women who are whiskey drinkers, they tend to lean more toward clear spirits or wine.” His gaze shifts to my glass of rosé. “I bet that’s your experience, too.”

  I don’t answer him, because he’s right, of course. And it’s so annoying. I take a taste of the drink and immediately give it back, trying not to make a sour face. “It’s not bad …”

  “But?”

  I smile sheepishly. “It’s a little too whiskey-ish for me.” His head falls back and he roars. I laugh, too. The bubbling laughter begins small and quiet, but gets louder as it floats out of my chest and into the open air. We laugh for what feels like a long time. Every time one of us stops, we catch the other’s eye and we start again. My annoyance drifts away with the laughter. And as much as I hate to admit it, at this moment, I’m kind of glad he showed up.

  We semi-compose ourselves when the waitress brings over Sinclair’s bourbon and two kinds of cornbread. I avoid the bread with the jalapeños. I’m not falling for that again.

  “Miss Macy’s is a well-kept secret among the locals. How did you find it?”

  “Lucinda from the library told me about it. She’s a wealth of information on all things Charleston, and she doesn’t mind sharing what she knows with me.”

  “Lucinda McCrae?”

  I nod.

  “She’s a fixture in town. Speaks her mind, even when it would be better for everybody if she kept her mouth shut. You must be pretty special if she’s takin’ a liking to you.”

  “You’ve lived here three years. How do you know Lucinda’s life story?”

  He shrugs, breaking off a piece of pepper-studded cornbread and placing it on my plate. “When I started working for the Wilders it became my business to know Charleston—every inch of the landscape, every corner of the city, the players and the spectators. Why don’t you put away your computer?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “We’re having supper. Put away the computer—it’s the polite thing to do when someone is sitting with you.”

  “I didn’t invite you to have dinner with me. You just sat down.”

  “You didn’t tell me to leave, either.”

  Despite my better judgment, I close the laptop and store it in my bag.

  “Taste this,” he says, bringing a bite-size piece of cornbread to my mouth. My lips are sealed tight as I eye it suspiciously. “It’s got just a small kick to it—mostly flavor. Nothing like the corn nuts.”

  I gaze at him for a few seconds, but look away before I eat from his fingers. The bread is delicious and being fed like this makes it seem almost decadent, but when his thumb catches a stray crumb from my lip, and he sucks it into his mouth—it’s downright sinful.

  I’m a bundle of nerves. That’s what he does to me. Tonight it’s the kind of nerves that take over when you’re with an attractive man and you’re not sure what’s going to happen next—or even what you want to happen. I take a sip of wine to calm myself, and steer the mood back to a place that’s more comfortable for me. “Do you just randomly go around and sit with any unaccompanied diner or only women?”

  “It’s part of my daily act of kindness.”

  The small throbbing between my legs continues, but it isn’t enough to throw me completely. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I thought I made it pretty clear that I’d be following you.”

  My jaw tightens. “You actually follow me from place to place?” The prospect of this total lack of privacy is unnerving. And infuriating.

  He shakes his head, and butters a piece of cornbread, taking his sweet time before answering my question. “No. I don’t have time for that. I have a newbie who’s been tasked with the honor of keeping track of you. But we’re not monitoring you that closely. Not yet, anyway.”

  I pull out my wallet and place a few bills under the edge of my bread plate to cover the dinner I haven’t yet eaten, and gather my things. He places a heavy paw on my wrist. “Where you goin’?”

  “I wanted a quiet night to myself. I don’t need this.” I pull my hand back, but he doesn’t let go.

  “Maybe you can ply me with booze and get me to talk.” One side of his mouth curls. “You’re not going to get me to spill my guts about the Wilders, but maybe there are other things about Charleston I can help you with.”

  “Stop manipulating. It’s not going to work this time.”

  Sinclair tips his head from side-to-side as though he’s weighing something. “You’re right. I’m manipulating. That’s a fair characterization.”

  “Why would you bother?”

  “I want to have supper with you.” I’m not sure which of us seems the most surprised by his revelation. The difference is, I don’t believe it.

  Right. “You want to have supper with me. Why?”

  He takes a sip of bourbon. “It gives me a chance to see what you’re up to …
and … it allows me … to have … supper with you.” The words emerge in fits and spurts, a bit tortured, like a tooth that cracked into a half dozen pieces while the dentist was attempting an extraction.

  “Why?” I don’t care if I sound like a parrot who has been taught only one word. I want the answer to that question.

  He shrugs, rubbing his thumb in small circles on the inside of my wrist that he’s still clutching.

  “Here we are,” the waitress announces brightly. “Careful, the plates are hot.” Sinclair lets go of my wrist and pulls his arm back so she can put down the food.

  “Why?” I probe, when she’s gone. “Why do you want to have dinner with me?”

  He wets his lips with the bourbon before draining the tumbler. “I like you,” he says simply, his eyes focused on mine. “And it’s your birthday. You shouldn’t spend it alone.”

  “What?” How does he know it’s my birthday? They’ve been monitoring your every move. He already said as much. The throbbing between my legs has migrated due north, and my head feels like it’s seconds from exploding. I sip some water and swallow deliberately, asking myself over and over why I’m still sitting here.

  “And you’re a bit of an enigma,” he mutters. “There are things about you I don’t understand. I like puzzles.” He pauses for a moment. “Why did you agree to that stupid game in the apartment?”

  “I wanted the story.”

  He pins me with his eyes. “Bullshit.”

  “Maybe I was hoping you’d take off your clothes, too.” I smooth the napkin on my lap, avoiding his eyes.

  “The bullshit is piling up. How about a little truth before we drown in the stench?”

  13

  Kate

  I take a bite of my dinner with Sinclair still studying me like I’m a lab experiment. I don’t like being on this side of the probe.

  His fixed stare is relentless. It’s probably some kind of special operative tactic to get people to talk. It’s not going to work. Although I suppose there’s no harm in telling him a little something, so I can eat in peace. “I’m chasing the Pulitzer Prize,” I throw out casually, before taking another bite of food. “It’s awarded to honor exceptional—”